


Clocks in Venice

by citrinesunset



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Curses, Darkness, F/M, Hallucinations, Insanity, Isolation, Nighttime, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: Cursed to live in perpetual darkness, time is both relentless and meaningless for Strange.





	Clocks in Venice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chillydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/gifts).



The clocks were talking about him. Incessant, rhythmic chattering that seemed to grow louder and louder.

"He's quite mad, isn't he?"

"Mad with grief. Wants to believe she's still alive."

"Mad? Mad? He sees the truth. That's all."

"It matters not. He has all the time in the world."

Then Strange remembered that the clocks were not speaking. They were ticking. The clocks were arranged around the perimeter of the room, each slightly out of sync with the others. He'd wasted over an hour yesterday trying to fix that, before he realized that the task was keeping him from his work. He had to keep his wits about him.

Strange no longer remembered why he'd wanted the clocks. Lord Byron, his only remaining friend who was willing to cater to such follies, reported that he'd asked for all the clocks in Venice. He only had a dozen clocks, but the ticking was so loud, so incessant that he could have believed he really did have every clock in Venice. The ticking burrowed into his mind until he half believed _he_ had become a clock, capable of nothing but tracking the time as it passed.

He was aware of every hour, every second since this curse was put upon him. Yet it felt like it had been so much longer. Trapped in the dark, unable to see the sun rise and set, the concept of days no longer held meaning. Each second bled into the next.

He wondered how the time passed for Arabella in Faerie. All the sources suggested that the perception of time was much different there, and that a hundred years might feel like a single night. Perhaps that was a mercy, compared to the purgatory he found himself in. Did she remember him? He almost wished that she didn't, so that she might be spared the knowledge of what happened to her. He'd wondered at times if she might be able to free herself if her mind were free. But he had not been able to save her, and he felt quite sane. Quite aware of the truth.

There was nothing to do but read. At first, he'd been confident that he would find a means of rescuing Arabella. He'd never faced a challenge that he wasn't willing—or able—to meet. But as the days continued without a solution, the possibility of failure lurked on the horizon. And that was too horrible to imagine.

All the same, he was certain that Arabella was keeping him sane. If he'd lacked a purpose, he thought the heavy darkness that surrounded him might tear his mind to tatters. His friends—people who had enjoyed his company as long as his magic seemed exciting and non-threatening—had abandoned him. At first, a few had been curious enough about his supposed madness to look in on him, but they had been scared off. He couldn't remember what he might have said or done to frighten them, so he assumed it was the darkness that drove them away.

Did they think _he_ was causing it? That he'd put the curse on himself because he was mad?

At least Dr. Greysteel had listened to Strange's warnings and sent Flora away, even if he seemed doubtful about Strange's judgement. That was better than the response he'd received from Henry Woodhope. That was, he'd received no response at all. He didn't know what to think about that. Surely Arabella's brother, of all people, would be elated to find out she was alive. Why had he not come to Venice yet? Why hadn't he written?

The only person who remained was Lord Byron. He was one of the curiosity-seekers, to be sure. He would sit in the corner of Strange's room, pen in hand, and observe him. But Strange couldn't blame him. He, too, had once thought that madness was exciting and mysterious. The important thing was that Lord Byron wasn't frightened, and he didn't try to stop Strange from continuing his frenzied studies.

But he was gone now. Strange couldn't remember when he'd left, or if he'd said goodbye. The clocks were still chattering in a perverse impression of conversation, though he could no longer make out the words. Perhaps later, he would get rid of them. Perhaps the Greysteels would take one or two. For now, he set aside his book, grabbed his coat, and stepped out of his room. He ran down the stairs and out into the street. He needed fresh air. He needed quiet.

Once he was away from the light of his lamps, the darkness became more oppressive. The air cooler. He pulled his coat across his chest as he walked down into the abandoned street. He couldn't go far. Where he went, the tower of darkness followed. Perhaps if it was nighttime, he could get away with it, but he couldn't tell anymore. It was always night.

He laughed at the absurdity of that. A dozen clocks, but he couldn't tell the difference between day and night. His only savior was the church down the street with its bell that rang out the hours, but come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time it rang. 

It seemed more people abandoned the neighborhood every day. Was he the only one left?

Strange sometimes had trouble remembering what was rational and what was not, but he was certain he remembered that every person had a candle in their head. There had been a time when he could look out his window and see the lights bobbing up and down the street.

He sat on the step outside his building. The stone was cold. The lack of sunlight had created a midnight chill that never lifted. The cold and quiet gave the impression that Venice was dead, and no amount of reminding himself that life continued outside the darkness made the least bit of difference. The people of Venice were as distant to him as Arabella was.

Then he heard a faint whispering. He strained his ears to identify where it was coming from and what was being said.

Then he heard it, so soft that he could barely make out the words: "You will die. You will die. And she will live forever."

It was coming from his pocket. His watch—he'd forgotten he had it on him. He pulled it out and closed it in his fist, as though he could crush the metal casing with his bare hand. But what the watch said was true regardless. Time would march on. One day he would die, but Arabella might never die.

He stood. He opened the watch, dropped it face-up on the pavement, and ground the heel of his boot into the face. Glass shattered, metal crunched, and the whispering stopped.

Strange took a deep breath. He understood what he had to do, now. He would stop the clocks from mocking him once and for all.

He went back upstairs and opened the large window facing the street. The cool breeze blew out the candle on his desk, but he paid it no mind. He grabbed the nearest clock and tossed it out the window. It landed on the street below with a satisfying crash of splintering wood, and he leaned on the window sill to look down at it. He let out a triumphant laugh.

Perhaps if he destroyed every clock in Venice, time would stop for him as it had for Arabella. He would have all the time he needed. But first, he'd start with the mocking, whispering monsters right here in this room.

When he was finished, his heart was pounding and his shirt was damp with perspiration. The room was quiet and, for the briefest time, he was at peace.

It faded quickly. There was work to be done, all the better now that he was alone. He re-lit the candle on the desk and returned to his reading.


End file.
